


Suspended

by Taskir



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 10:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taskir/pseuds/Taskir
Summary: Written for the Yuletide 2004 exchange.





	Suspended

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Yuletide 2004 exchange.

The first thing he thinks of is his mother's snowglobe collection.

The collection is immense--as well it should be, his mother's only been collecting since she and his father were married--and even when Todd was a child, it took up an entire room in their house. Shelves upon shelves loaded down with miniature skyscrapers, tiny Eiffel Towers, diminutive Golden Gate Bridges, petite Mount Rushmores. Sometimes it seemed as though the entire world was concentrated within that room, and for years it was Todd's favorite in the house.

Unnoticed, he would sneak into the room and sit for hours on end, looking inside those representations of the world reduced into one small landmark. The water in each one was completely still and tranquil, almost as though there was no liquid inside at all. Closing his eyes, he would imagine himself living in one of the skyscrapers--the immense, complete quiet that must lay within.

Eventually, he would start to shake the snowglobes up. One after the other, every one that he could reach, until almost all of them were nothing but flurries of snow. He'd sit again, watching intently until every last one had completely settled once more. The thing that struck him most was how it always was as though nothing had happened. No matter how much he shook the globes, how chaotic the water and snowflakes inside seemed to be, they would always eventually settle back to their original state of complete stillness.

Todd envied the snowglobes. He did his best to cultivate that kind of stillness and solitude around himself. He quickly learned if he was silent, he would receive blessed silence in return. Some teachers or roommates or relatives could be more persistent than others, but they all gradually learned if they tried to speak to Todd, they would receive nothing much more than a blush and a ducked head in response. So, gradually, they quit putting forth the effort.

Even through this entire semester at Welton, when everything in his life seemed to be designed to shake up his world--Neil, who wouldn't get the hint, and Charlie, who was worse, and then Keating and writing a poem and the damn meetings--he would picture the snowglobes in his head, rows of tranquil water, and he would be content.

Now, walking in the snowy yard, cheeks and nose frozen, it's the snowglobes he tries to call up again. He tries to picture the room, the shelves, the tiny Acropolis or miniscule pyramids, but none of it stays. So he instead looks at the lake in front of him, and it's like he's seeing it for the first time.

If anyone ever made a snowglobe of Welton, they would probably put the lake in it. Maybe one building, so people would know it was a school, but otherwise it would be dominated by the lake. At least, that's how he would make it.

Someone is shoving snow into his mouth, hands are on his back, and Todd is dimly aware that he's fallen to his knees and thrown up. He tries to hold on to the image of the Welton snowglobe, how perfect it would be, how he could be inside it and it would be quiet and nothing would ever happen--

And now he's running, he has to be away from the hands and the concern and the noise, dear god, the noise of all of them talking and trying to be comforting. He doesn't know where he's running because there is logically nowhere to run to, no safety, no silence. He hears someone scream and it's like glass is breaking, and before he has time to realize whose scream it was, he's at the pier and the same noise is coming out of his throat, but strangled from his lack of breath.

*****

It's bright. Far too bright, and Todd wonders why his mother's moved her snowglobe collection here. She used to keep it in an interior room, windowless, so the sun couldn't get in and make her little treasures fade. For some reason, however, the room is now full of light, glinting off each globe with a sharp little spark of sun.

Squinting against the glare, Todd can just make out a few of his most favorite snowglobes. He reaches for one, wanting to feel the familiar heft, run his fingers over the smooth glass and glossy wooden bases. But for some reason, they all dance away from his grasp, the shelves always higher when he reaches for them than they first appeared.

Finally he turns and sees a shelf lower than the rest. He rushes to it, afraid it will suddenly start raising into the air of its own power, but it miraculously stays put. This shelf carries only one globe--a new one.

It's very different from the rest, he can already tell--the base, instead of the usual circle, has been cleverly carved to resemble a book, and inside, there's not a cityscape or monument. There's simply a figure of a boy, crown of twigs on his head, his expression clearly serene, even though the face is not much bigger than a dime. Out of habit, Todd shakes the globe.

The boy is on his back. Waxy bits of white swirl around him, not like snow, but like a million carrion birds.

And the water is red. Very red.

Todd hears the broken glass sound again, even before the globe shatters on the floor.

*****

When Todd wakes, it's dark once more. The first thing he sees is Charlie by his bedside, and for a brief moment Todd allows himself to entertain the notion he's been dreaming, that the Hellton Hash had been especially bad last night and was responsible for his nightmares.

Then he registers the look on Charlie's face, and he knows it's impossible. It couldn't have been a dream, not with Charlie sitting there looking so drawn, so intense, so completely unlike himself.

"Charlie..." he stops, unsure what he wants to say.

"Yeah?"

"Where's everyone else?"

Charlie shrugs. "I don't know. Did you...did you want something? Are you hungry? Do you want to talk...?"

"I'm not sure. How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours, I think. You kept...well, we're all worried about you."

Todd sighs. "I'm...well, I'm not fine, obviously. But...thank you. For staying, I mean."

Charlie manages a very small smile, and the ghost of his usual self is there for the briefest moment. "Like I'd leave you?"

Todd isn't sure how to respond to that, so he busies himself with picking at a bit of fuzz on his blanket. It isn't until he sees dark spots on the blanket that he realizes he's crying. He glances up to see if Charlie's noticed, and before he has a chance to wipe the tears away Charlie's arms are around him, head buried against Todd's shoulder.

After an unknown time, Todd clears his throat.

"Charlie? If I asked you...well, will you tell me something?"

Charlie's voice sounds like Todd feels, hollow and thin. "Tell you what, Todd?"

"Tell me that things are going to be ok."

"Todd...how can you expect me to say that?"

Gently pulling away, Todd looks Charlie in the eyes for possibly the first time. "Because, I just...I need to hear it, even if it isn't true. And what you say...I believe."

Charlie swallows, clearly uncertain. He stares at Todd for a long moment, debating, before pulling him close again and rubbing his back. "It...it'll be ok, Todd. Things will be ok."

Todd sighs and relaxes into Charlie's touch. He lets his eyes close and pictures the Welton snowglobe he'd imagined this morning, this time with a building. Inside that building, hardly visible behind a tiny pane of glass, two small figures forever hold each other on a twin bed, surrounded by nothing but space, silence, and swirling flakes of snow.


End file.
